


Precedent

by kinodream



Category: Tam Lin (Traditional Ballad), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Now with 50 percent fewer commas!, Referenced Mpreg, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25281058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinodream/pseuds/kinodream
Summary: “And,” said Jaskier, focusing desperately on his words and not the odor, “There’s bound to be more curses besides.”“There are?” said Geralt.“Gods, Geralt, yes, obviously there are. Have you spent these past centuries trapped in this forest with not a single thought flitting through your beautiful head?”Geralt glared very shiftily at his boots, before muttering, “I’ve been busy. Lots of things to do here.”Jaskier cast himself flat on his back and sighed very loudly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92





	Precedent

**Author's Note:**

> To clarify, there is no actual mpreg in the story, since Witchers are sterile. But it is used as a major plot point, regardless of the fact that no pregnancy of any kind actually occurs.
> 
> For those interested: This is based on the 16th century myth of Tam Lin. I have of course changed most of the pronouns in this tale--originally, the protagonist is a woman named Janet (or occasionally, Margaret), who definitely has a reason for going into the Carterhaugh forest and getting knocked up, but whatever reason that was isn’t named. I figured it was probably to avoid an arranged marriage, since the random elf man living in a dilapidated forest was, apparently, a better husband than anyone else. Anyway. The story is essentially about a young woman who goes sluttily into Carterhaugh forest to fuck an elf. And I thought, that could be Jaskier. And now, here we are.
> 
> See my end notes for the various ways that I butchered Tam Lin to tell this story.

Julian’s father had often warned him away from Carterhaugh Forest. It was cursed, or haunted, or else wild enough to be deadly, flush with wolves, with bandits, woad-painted brigands, sorcerers, or, may the gods forbid, Witchers. Occasionally, as his father told it, the spirits of Roman soldiers hid there, and would lead innocents to their deaths. The danger shifted constantly, in his father’s stories. For a while, that had been enough for Julian to avoid it. It was, after all, a murky place with awful acoustics and no-one decent around to listen to his songs. It had never stopped him from going to the outskirts, though, leaning against a tree with the road still in sight, lute in hand, and singing whatever ballads he’d learnt from passing bards, but the cautionary tales had been enough to keep him from venturing further than he thought he could find his way out of. If the weather was dull and dark, he’d stay away. If the fog was thick, he’d only gaze with longing on the green horizon. If a storm raged, he’d watch the swaying branches from his window.

In truth, it was not the forest that drew him, but the castle said to hide in it. A Witcher had lived there before his father’s line had occupied these lands, if the stories were to be believed. The faeries had dwelt there very long ago, but left during the Conjuction of the Spheres, and now their agent slept there and lured innocents to their deaths.

Julian had been almost a year at Oxenfurt when his father had written him—a Duke had been looking for a young lady to marry, and his father, ever dubious of the bard’s role in history, and even more dubious of having had a son, had offered Julian. There was no land to be gained, but certainly goats would change hands, and the people of his hamlet would be the better for it.

And so before Julian knew it, he’d been withdrawn from Oxenfurt and was on a carriage back to his father’s castle. 

“He’s not so old,” said his father, “that he couldn’t assure a healthy line. And his Duchy is a rich man. You wouldn’t want for the rest of your life.”

Julian hadn’t graced that with a reply. If he’d cared about going hungry, he wouldn’t have gone to Oxenfurt. Everyone knew bards went hungry at times. They traveled the muddy roads between towns, relaying old myths, and, sometimes, current news to townsfolk. _That_ was the life that Julian wanted. Not adventure, but the telling of it, anyway.

Julian wasn’t to meet his betrothed for another month—the festival of Samhain would be the day, though surely no-one expected him to stick around so long. He hadn’t completed even a year at Oxenfurt, it’s true, but he had talent. He could get by singing old songs, if he had to. Anything was better than a Duke older than his _father._ Old enough to be his father’s father, if what he heard was true.

It was this vein of thinking, coupled with dread, desperation, and no small amount of interest, that led him to the Carterhaugh forest two days before Samhain. The fog was heavy, omnipresent as the secrecy which served almost as a barrier—almost—since here Julian was, passing through.

The trees grew closer together the farther he walked. The fog thickened, cold and wet, on his skin. He unbuttoned his doublet a little—best to start on a good, tempting impression, yes?

After another few paces, he loosened the top laces on his breeches as well.

A clearing grew ahead of him through the mist, though it soon showed itself to be more of an overgrown garden, covered in a soft layer of tall dandelions, and behind it, a series of walls grew upward as surely as the trees did—a mossy sight without end, or else with an end hidden wholly in the gloom. Julian moved to the edge of the garden and bent over to pick a few that were still young and yellow.

A voice in the white dark: “What are you doing here?”

The voice belonged to a man with long ashen hair. The Witcher, undoubtedly. He was leaning against the outermost crumbling castle wall.

Julian stopped his pulling on the dandelions and turned to face the man completely. “I’m only picking flowers,” he said. And then, daringly, added, “My father owns these lands. And so these are my flowers.”

The Witcher’s face flickered a little, bypassing irritation and veering decidedly towards amusement. “Your father’s?” he said. “I think not.” He moved closer, crossing the clearing in a few loping steps.

Julian resisted the urge to go a button deeper. His collar was already 3 buttons down. Instead, he said, “My father’s father bought this land.” And he leaned toward the pale phantom.

“Oh?” said the phantom, quietly, slowly. “Regardless … A tithe is to be paid. This is no empty place.”

Julian smiled. “A tithe? Of what sort? I would be happy to pay for the pleasure of picking these flowers.”

Many parts of the castle were open to the sky, the upper floors having long since collapsed into dull rubble. But the Witcher led Julian past these places, and deep into the ruins, to a corner that had been, if not lovingly maintained, at least functionally cleared of debris. A smokeless fire caught the edges of a firepit, and the wind whistled a few winding corridors down. The Witcher herded Julian towards the fire, and bade him to sit in front of it.

“Who are you?” asked Julian, stretching out a little. “Your name, I mean.”

The Witcher gave a smile that was closer to a wolf baring its teeth. “Geralt,” he answered. “Of Rivia. And you, who wander into my Carterhaugh with a coy look and a distinct sense of purpose? What is your name?”

“I am Jaskier,” said Jaskier, realizing that now was the perfect time to debut his barding name. “And I _am_ here for a purpose. I’m not such a fool as to idly wander into these woods.”

Geralt sat next to him, turned his head to watch him with orange eyes. “Not a fool? I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it. I don’t know you well enough to judge that, though by your actions I wonder how wise you could possibly be.”

Jaskier inched toward him, leant back, bared his throat. “I was hoping you would _know_ me rather well, soon enough. I’ve heard of you, Geralt of Rivia, though I did not know your name. There are many stories of the Witcher who dwells in Carterhaugh. And though they are taken by most to be cautionary tales, I am well-read and well-studied, and I know myth from its counterpart.”

“And what do the stories say of me, then, Jaskier? If you know so much about me, and indeed, about all stories.”

“They say,” said Jaskier, and here he took a deep breath which somewhat ruined his smirking facade, “That many women have wandered here, and picked the dandelions that grow about this castle, which a Witcher inhabits. They say that those women spend the night with that Witcher, and return home with child.”

At this, Geralt gave a derisive snort. “That sounds more like a convenient story for an unexplained babe,” he said. 

“Oh? Then the tithe you demanded was for what, exactly? The buttons off my doublet? A brace of coneys?”

Geralt paused at that accusation. “I was… originally aiming for a brace of coneys.”

Jaskier raised his brow. “ _Originally?_ And what’s that supposed to mean?”

Geralt pursed his lips, and said nothing.

“I think I liked you better when you were tall and brooding and demanding _tithes,_ ” said Jaskier. “Instead of tall and brooding and insisting that you’ve never bedded anyone at all, especially not as payment for trespassing.”

“You do seem that sort,” muttered Geralt, and then, louder, said, “But that brings me to my real query—you speak of ladies seeking a babe. But,” he gestured vaguely to Jaskier, “I’m not certain what you would stand to gain from…”

“Our coupling?” said Jaskier, sweetly. Geralt turned a little red. “As it happens, I seek the same as everyone else, dear Witcher. My father has offered my hand in marriage to an ancient and dreadfully dull man. Were I to come back bearing a child, he would have no use for me, nor interest besides.”

Geralt looked at him for a few moments, clearly thinking, and then shrugged in a manner that was far more tense than casual. “If that is what you wish.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I didn’t unbutton my doublet this deeply for no reason at all,” he said. Geralt’s eyes immediately flickered down to Jaskier’s chest, and stayed there. 

Jaskier sighed a little and then took Geralt’s arm and dragged him closer, though from a Witcher’s strength, he was certainly moving of his own accord. He moved his forearms up to rest on either side of Geralt’s neck, and then wiggled unceremoniously onto his lap. Geralt was hardly breathing, and his cat-like pupils had grown round, so that his eyes looked almost entirely black.

This made Jaskier pause for a moment. “If _you’re_ willing,” he began, and then Geralt reached up to place his massive hands quite gently on Jaskier’s hips.

“Oh yes,” said Geralt. “I’m willing.”

It seemed many hours later when Jaskier awoke, alone and cold, and no longer in the ruin of the castle. There was an ache between his legs that told him he hadn’t dreamt the Witcher, and his doublet was entirely unbuttoned now, his breeches unlaced. He couldn’t have left the castle on his own feet like this, certainly, and he’d thought…

 _No matter,_ thought Jaskier, with no small amount of sadness. _He was doing me a favor, and I was doing the same. If he wants me gone, so be it._

It was a very long walk back to his village.

Jaskier’s father was livid, which came as no surprise at all.

“Wandering the forest,” he cried, in a tone that suggested Jaskier would be very sorry once the speech was over, “With your doublet torn and a _Witcher_ on the prowl, only a day before you are to be wed!”

“ _Were_ to be wed,” cut in Jaskier.

“And what am I to tell your mother! She—” the Viscount suddenly stopped his monologue and turned to look at Jaskier, and then, face growing ever more purple in rage, he ground out, “ _Were_ to be wed?”

“I’m with child,” said Jaskier, with far more surety in his voice than he felt, “And so unfortunately I won’t be marrying the Duke of Northumbria after all.”

The Viscount made a sound of utter disgust. “Who would lay with _you,_ when you dress as a whore of a man, instead of a lady, no matter how your parents entreatied you? You lie, _Julia._ You will speak of this no further.”

Jaskier gave a smile that was more teeth than anything else, and said, “It was the Witcher, actually. We’re quite in love, and I’m with his child, and if you try to wed me to the Duke, he’ll… he’ll come and slaughter everyone in this castle!”

The Viscount swore coldly and then spat on the floor. “Get out!” he cried. “If you wish to curse your own womb, so be it! Out of my sight! May you plague this house no more!” 

Jaskier ran.

It occurred to him, as he caught his breath just outside the village, that he had forgotten to take his perfumes, or a new doublet, or his beloved lute, or, indeed, anything he owned.

He’d been cast out of Carterhaugh, and cast out of Selkirk. He was probably with child (though it had been less than a day, and he had no proof but for the feeling of certainty), and while Oxenfurt would likely take him back, he had no way to get there. 

Though… perhaps Geralt hadn’t cast him out, really. Jaskier was known for sleepwalking. It would be foolish to not _ascertain,_ surely, whether he was welcome there.

It was on this fraying hope that Jaskier turned toward Carterhaugh and began walking once more.

This time, there was no clear path. He could see no spires over the tops of the dripping trees, nor any sign of the castle. The little footpath he’d wandered yesterday had led repeatedly back to the main road of Selkirk to Melrose, and so he’d stepped off it and followed the sun. It had been southwest, he thought, but southwest he’d traveled, and there had been no familiar ground since Selkirk. 

_Perhaps Geralt is hiding from me,_ he thought, feeling wild and a little panicked. His fear stretched out far ahead, past the distant green blur of the forest, sinking its teeth into every place he’d hoped to travel. _They won’t want me,_ he thought. _None of them will want me._ He sank to the ground and pressed his knees against his chest, buried his face in his hands. _Geralt only wanted someone to warm his bed._ Jaskier wasn’t sure why this thought stung so badly, since that was what he’d assumed anyway, right up until Jaskier had kissed him.

For a wild Witcher, Geralt had kissed so gently. His hands had shook, ever so slightly, where he’d touched Jaskier’s chest.

But of course, that had been a ruse. A lie, really. Like the men at Oxenfurt, who had been sweet with words (and of course they’d been sweet with words, Jaskier should have known better than to listen) but had cared only about—

Jaskier was suddenly aware of a pair of hands set about his shoulders. He looked out from behind his palms, and almost cried out in relief.

Geralt was kneeling before him, looking almost panicked.

“You can’t be here, Jaskier,” he said, which was the very last thing that Jaskier wanted to hear.

“I know,” he moaned, “You don’t want me. I’ll go—” 

But Geralt clutched at him harder and shook his head. “It isn’t safe. I would that you’d stayed in your village, but better to be in my castle than in these woods.”

Jaskier stared at him dazedly.

“Up!” said Geralt, but when Jaskier only blinked away tears, Geralt took him in his arms and began to carry him away.

After some time, Jaskier felt himself returning to his body. He was back at the firepit, and Geralt was poking with a wooden spoon at a cauldron that was set at the foot of the flames, steaming merrily.

Jaskier watched him for a minute, and then cleared his throat, though he had nothing to say. He wanted answers more than he wanted to flirt, or regale, or sing, which was a new feeling for him.

“You’re awake,” said Geralt, turning to look at him. He abandoned whatever he’d been stirring and moved to sit very close.

Jaskier looked at his well-patched clothing and scarred, calloused hands, and opened his mouth to say _I think I’ve been asleep every moment in my life, before I met you,_ but instead what came out was, “Why did you bring me back here?”

At this, Geralt seemed to draw back a great distance, and his eyes shuttered. “Carterhaugh isn’t a safe forest to wander,” he said, slowly, almost tonelessly. “I was worried what might be done to you.”

“Done to me?” said Jaskier. He still felt almost—drunk. Or at the very least, the same hazy absence that had overtaken him when he broke his leg, as a child, and the apothecary had given him some foul potion before resetting and binding it. And when he’d awoken, the pain was still there, but it seemed as though it belonged to someone else, and he could not feel it.

“The Faeries,” said Geralt, still slow, but now as though he were trying to talk to a fool. “I am hardly the danger of this place. I only live here, and I hunt the wild beasts that would run into your villages, and I have snares for deer or hare, but never have I caused one of yours any harm.”

Jaskier still wasn’t following, but the desperation that had entered Geralt’s voice toward the end could hardly be bourn, so he said, “I know that. I’ve always known you were not a danger, but I’d thought then that there wasn’t one at all.”

“Do you think I live in this ruin because I wish to?” said Geralt.

Jaskier looked around. “No?” he tried, though he truly wasn’t certain. The Witcher seemed lonely, yes, but also as though he’d sought out this solitude, had carved it out of the stone here.

“No,” said Geralt, and then he paused, and when he continued again his voice was soft, and terribly sad. “Long ago, I was hunting a creature in this realm. But I found, instead of the creature, this castle. It was not always so neglected—this was a Faerie’s castle. And their Queen, Tanaquill, captured me and held me here. When men came to this land, the Faeries were driven out, but I remained. Yet I cannot leave this forest, and my time, here, draws to end.”

At this Jaskier sat up, the last dregs of fog lifting from his mind. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Wherever you are going, I will follow!”

But Geralt shook his head. “You won’t, or at least, I hope you won’t. The Faerie Queen intends to kill me, now that she has run out of mortals to sacrifice to Hell. I was useful to her, for a while, but I don’t think I am any longer. And she would be loathe to sacrifice one of her own, if any other could take their place.”

“No!” cried Jaskier. And he buried his face in his hands once more, though this time it was in deep thought. After some time, he resurfaced, afraid but deathly determined. “If a Faerie Queen has ensnared you, then there isn’t much to be done,” he began.

“I know,” said Geralt. “And I’ve tried everything that came to mind.” He paused. “Everything which I could try, any way.”

“Yes,” said Jaskier, and then set his jaw. “But I think, you haven’t tried true love’s kiss.”

Geralt sighed. “And from _whom,_ ” he began, but then Jaskier was kissing him.

“I know it can’t fix everything,” Jaskier murmured, an hour later and laid in front of the fire. “But it gives us options.”

Geralt was still looking a little shocked, and well-kissed also. He turned his head very slowly to watch Jaskier.

“Perhaps you’re more well-read than I gave you credit for.”

“I’m the most well-read man you have ever met,” declared Jaskier promptly. “And I know many stories, and myths, and I am certain that I also know a way to stop this.”

Geralt hummed a little, which Jaskier took as encouragement.

“You must ride out with them as you would every seventh year. And I will wait along the path which the Faeries ride, and I will pull you off your horse and hide you.”

“That’s not likely to work,” said Geralt, “Seeing as it’s nonsense.”

“No, it’s not. There’s _precedent._ ” Jaskier fixed Geralt with a stern glare. “Pay attention. I know many stories about Faeries. They will have cursed you.”

“I already know I’m cursed,” sighed Geralt. He sat up to prod at the cauldron again. Jaskier, who was suddenly realizing how hungry he felt, leant over to see what kind of stew it was. It smelled like hare, but was composed entirely of chunks of white fat floating in a brownish broth. He looked away again and decided he was no longer hungry at all.

“And besides,” continued Geralt, “They will know if I disappear.”

“Doubt that,” said Jaskier. “It’s a pretty simple arrangement: they’re on their way to pay a tithe to Hell. You’re compelled to join them. They’ve no reason to think someone will intervene.”

Geralt acknowledged this with a half shrug and a particularly fierce motion with the wooden spoon in the cauldron. Liquid sloshed down the side and into the fire, sending up a putrid smell, at which both of them wrinkled their noses.

“ _And,_ ” said Jaskier, focusing desperately on his words, and not the odor, “There’s bound to be more curses besides.” 

“There are?” said Geralt.

“ _Gods,_ Geralt, yes, obviously there are. Have you spent these past centuries trapped in this forest with not a single thought flitting through your beautiful head?”

Geralt glared very shiftily at his boots, before muttering, “I’ve been busy. Lots of things to do here.”

Jaskier cast himself flat on his back and sighed very loudly.

It was not very long before Geralt began to act strangely, like a puppet whose strings were being nudged one way or the other. Jaskier watched him, worried, for a little while. “Is it happening already?” he asked.

“Samhain,” Geralt ground out, as though it hurt to speak, “Every seventh year. And it’ll be night soon. They’re calling to me.” 

The sun was already westering, though it couldn’t be seen from Geralt’s corner of the castle. Jaskier stood up, slowly and with stiff limbs. “Then you will ride out soon, I suppose,” he said.

Geralt nodded. “The Faeries ride white or black horses. But I will be on a brown one, and that is how you will know me.” His speech was even more fragmented now, with long pauses between each word, as though it were an effort to not fling himself from the castle and begin riding into Hell. “You must meet me at Miles Cross.”

“Of course,” said Jaskier, nodding. “I will hurry there.”

Geralt said nothing, and only gave a small pained grunt and balled his fists. Jaskier approached him, slow enough that Geralt could stop him, and kissed the edge of his jaw, which was as high as he could reach without Geralt bending down a little. “You will be fine,” said Jaskier.

Geralt turned on his heel and left, still moving as though he were not in control of his body.

Jaskier threw ashes on the fire (making sure to cover the stew as well), and followed.

Miles Cross wasn’t far, really, from the old castle. Jaskier had set out as soon as Geralt had staggered off, but he didn’t head there straightaway. He needed—

“Julian!” cried a well-familiar voice, “What brings you here?” Jaskier found himself grasped firmly by the shoulders, and then pulled into a hug. “It’s been months, you just disappeared from Oxenfurt with no word, and we’ve not heard of you since! I thought I’d find you in Aikwood, not Ercledoune, and I certainly didn’t think you’d be missing—” and here Thomas pulled back to get a better look at the state of Jaskier, “Four buttons, and your undershirt. What happened to you, my friend?”

“It’s a very long story, Thomas, one that I would _dearly_ love to tell you, but I’m in a hurry.”

Thomas frowned a little, but Jaskier barged on. “I need that old book you stole from Oxenfurt—don’t try to deny it—there’s a ballad in there I must read, quick as I can, and then I must go again.”

Thomas’ frown deepened for a moment, but he began to jog toward his cottage, so he seemed to at least have grasped the urgency of the situation. 

Jaskier rocked forward and backward on the balls of his feet while Thomas rummaged around the bookshelf. After several long moments, he let out a satisfied noise, and held the tome up. Jaskier immediately snatched it from his hands and started quickly flicking through the vellum pages.

“What have you gotten yourself into, my dear? You’re starting to worry me.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to reply but then said nothing, for he’d found the ballad he’d been searching for. He read feverishly, lips moving, face only a hand’s length from the ink.

Thomas leant over to see the page. “ _Tam Lin?_ ” he said incredulously.

“A newt,” muttered Jaskier, “then a lion.”

“What?” said Thomas loudly. “By the gods, Julian, what are you ranting about?”

“And then a naked knight, though in this case… and then I must hide him…” Jaskier snapped the book shut and stood abruptly. “I must go,” he announced, already halfway out the door.

“But _why?”_ wailed Thomas, “What’s going on?” He ran after Jaskier and caught him by the shoulder, holding him firmly in place, but Jaskier was already twisting out of his grasp.

“I have to save someone,” said Jaskier, and though he looked like he wanted to start running again, he stood for a moment more. “It’s very important. I swear to you, if all goes well, I’ll see you again and I’ll tell you the full story.” At this, he turned back toward the road.

Thomas was no longer expecting a good answer out of the riddle that his friend had become, but he yelled anyway, “But _whom?_ Who’s so important that you can’t even stop to explain?”

Jaskier was at least ten meters away, but he called over his shoulder, with a wide, slightly manic grin, “My true love! Geralt of Rivia!” Within seconds, he turned a corner round a hedge, and was out of sight.

Thomas stood rooted to the spot, mouth slightly agape. “The _Witcher?”_

Jaskier made good time running, and it was only just dusk when he arrived at Miles Cross, out of breath, and with ruined shoes. He could see no horses, nor any dust on the horizon—either he’d missed them completely, which seemed unlikely, or he was early.

Early enough for one last preparation, he hoped. 

There was an inn just across the bridge, though it looked like it’d seen better days. Jaskier tried to tidy himself a little, probably in vain. His hair felt knotted and tangled, his breeches had a rip about the left knee, and his shoes were almost falling off his feet. He pushed the door open anyway, and hurried to the man behind the bar that was polishing a disgusting glass with a rag that was, if it were possible, even more filthy. Really, he was only smearing grime around with every twist of his hand. The place was otherwise empty, though from a backroom came sounds of iron pots being moved about, and a shrill voice, shouting indecipherably.

The man looked up at Jaskier and grunted.

“A room, please,” said Jaskier, wearing his most charming smile.

“That’ll be ten coin, lad.”

Jaskier paused for only a second, before removing the rings in his ears with quick, practiced movements. “These are solid gold,” he said, placing them on the bar. The wood was incredibly sticky, and close up it looked foul, with spots of dried stew, possibly, in the cracks between the boards.

The man gave him an extremely dubious look. “And who should I sell this finery to, if I’m to get my ten coin?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Give it to your wife, then, what do I care? If you won’t give me the room, I’ll sleep just outside your doorstep and keep the earrings, and the only thing you’ll get is the sight of an angry, naked Witcher, and an angry, naked me.” He moved his hand toward the earrings, but the innkeeper snatched them up and cradled them in his left hand.

“No need for any of that,” he said, grimacing. “There’s a room to your right that’s free.”

 _They’re all free, you miser,_ thought Jaskier, but instead he said, “I’ll be back shortly. If you could send some bread in, or cured meats, if you have them, I’d be much obliged.” The innkeeper scowled, but Jaskier interrupted whatever idiocy he was about to spew.

“An angry, naked Witcher,” said Jaskier, dangerously. “With a massive—”

“All right! I’ll send you some bread. Just stop saying all that, and keep to yourselves once you come in, for godsake.”

It was only just night when Jaskier emerged from the inn. On the horizon, a thin cloud of dust rose from the road. 

Jaskier began to look for a hiding-place—far enough in shadow for the Faeries to miss him, but close enough to grab Geralt when he rode by. There was a patch of raspberry bramble near the cobbles, and nothing else as far as he could see, so Jaskier grit his teeth and crawled into it, moving about the thorny stalks as much as he could, to allow for a quick escape.

 _Surely no-one in their right mind would hide in here,_ though Jaskier, _and so no-one will look here_.

The moon had set clearly in the sky, and all was dark, but not quiet—the drum of many riders on horses could be heard, close now, and drawing ever closer. Jaskier moved a little nearer to the edge of the bramble, so as to better see the horses.

A trio of white horses cantered past first, led by a tall maiden, deathly pale, with white eyes and a terrible expression. Past that, many faeries clothed in blue, on black horses.

In the midst of this entourage was a single brown horse with a white mark on its nose, and a man riding it clothed in black. His face was hidden by a long hood.

Jaskier shot out of the bramble at the sight of this, and threw himself upon the rider, dragged him off his horse, and back toward the inn.

The faeries, entranced as they were, noticed nothing.

The innkeeper clearly had something to say about Jaskier (his clothes now wholly torn and stained with raspberry juice) pulling an unconscious man into the room he’d paid for, but Jaskier heard none of it.

The room was dark, though not as dark as it had been outside, with the hearth glowing and a few candles flickering about the bed. Geralt—for it was Geralt, beneath the black cloak—stirred restlessly against Jaskier’s shoulder.

It wasn’t worth it to try and place him upon the bed, Jaskier decided, for the Witcher was _quite_ heavy, and heavier still when he wasn’t helping his own limbs to move him. So Jaskier set him on the floor beside the straw mattress, and sat next to him, and waited.

It was a while before anything happened.

Jaskier had begun to recite a few poems to try and gauge the time when Geralt disappeared, leaving only a bundle of black cloth with a small, wriggling mass at the center. Jaskier drew in a breath and then, very tentatively, moved the cloth. An orange newt was crawling about it, which Jaskier picked up.

He resisted the urge to coo at it (uncertain if Geralt would remember his time as a newt), and instead held it gently, moving it whenever it tried to amble out of his hands.

He remembered, however, the second part of this story, and eventually replaced the newt in its bundle of cloth.

Some time later (nearly a hundred lines of Beowulf, though Jaskier had been told he recited it slowly), the newt grew, too quickly to see, into a lion.

The lion was larger than Geralt in his human form, though not by much. It regarded Jaskier with great suspicion, and moved some distance away from him before laying down and resting its giant head on its paws.

Jaskier only barely resisted the urge to reach out and touch its mane. He’d seen illustrations of lions, of course, though he was beginning to realize that the monks who drew the creatures had probably never seen them, nor, indeed, laid eyes on anything other than their fellow monks. He’d rather been expecting a beast shaped liked a dog, though with a great mass of hair around the neck and the scowling face of a man.

 _They ought to have described it to those wretched monks as an overlarge barn-cat,_ thought Jaskier, with no small amount of relief. 

The lion continued to watch him, still deeply suspicious, though now rather sleepy as well.

The fire was nearly out, and Jaskier had recited almost to the meeting of Grendel’s mother when the lion changed shape once more.

Geralt was sprawled dazedly against the bedframe, entirely naked, and extremely pale.

Jaskier shot up at once to help him into the bed, though Geralt resisted until he pulled Jaskier under the covers with him, and then settled down a little.

“Is it over?” he asked, hoarsely.

Jaskier nodded and pressed his nose to Geralt’s collarbone. “It’s over. The Faerie Queen has no more hold on you now.”

Geralt let out a long, shaky breath, and left a soft kiss on Jaskier’s mussed hair.

_“You,_ ” hissed a terrible voice, loud in the dark, “ _I ought to have known the depths of your treachery."_

Jaskier could feel Geralt bolt upright beside him, and turn towards the voice. With his Witcher eyes, he could probably see the speaker. Jaskier, however, saw only the unlit room, and so stayed very still, and listened.

“I owe you no allegiance,” began Geralt, but the Faerie Queen interrupted him.

“You owe me _everything,_ boy,” she spat. “You came into a place which was not yours, to kill a beast which did not need killing. And I spared your life, because you pleased me. But now, I have given my own kin to the devil, in the place of you, and I find you, here, outside the line of Carterhaugh, in bed with this man.” She paused, dangerously, and then spoke once more. “Had I known your intentions, _bard_ , I would have slaughtered you ere you even set foot in my forest.”

At this, Jaskier sat up, if only to hold back Geralt, who was now fuming with rage.

“You had no right,” he began, “To keep Geralt. Especially not after you were driven out of the forest. You kept him there for _centuries,_ alone, in your rotting castle. I would that you had rotted with it, so that Geralt might have been free of your influence sooner!”

“He is not free of my influence now!” cried the Faerie Queen. “There is no magic you know that could free him!”

And though the Faerie Queen could not see it, Jaskier began to smile. 

“Is that what you think?” he said, dangerously, and then he reached out to find Geralt’s jaw in the dark of the room, and pulled him in for a long kiss.

The Faerie Queen shrieked and began to glow a horrible blinding white, illuminating the room, the dead coals of the hearth, and the tangled blankets.

“I should have turned you to a tree when I had the chance!” she wailed, but as her form lit up the room, her silhouette grew smaller and smaller, until at last she was gone, and the room was dark once more.

It was silent for a moment. 

“Do you think she left because I used tongue?” asked Jaskier mildly.

“Can’t say for sure,” said Geralt, thoughtfully. 

Jaskier leant against him. “I’d love you even if she’d turned you into a dryad,” he said.

“I know,” said Geralt.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I’ve seen the Witcher and kind of played the games, but not read the books. But I felt that the myth of Tam Lin could be very well fit to Geralt and Jaskier, and I’m a big fan of updating myths to modern retellings. I will admit Geralt is a bit OOC, but since he’s been trapped in a forest for like, hundreds of years, he’s probably pretty lonely, and miserable, and Jaskier is really very hot and says the stupidest things. So Geralt is a bit more verbal and like, nice, than he is in the show and games. Also, this is set in Scotland, not Poland. Tam Lin is a Scottish myth, and frankly, I don’t know how I’d render most of the place names in Polish. I humbly ask for you to suspend your disbelief.
> 
> 2\. This fic is based primarily of Fairport Convention’s retelling of the ballad, although … I made it gay, and I changed a lot of things just to make it more interesting (their telling of it is not very detailed, and it’s not even a little gay, and it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense). The mpreg tag is because, for the purposes of this fic, Jaskier is trans as hell. And he attempts to get pregnant, since that’s a big part of the myth, though obviously, since Witchers are sterile, Jaskier is not actually pregnant at all. But there’s not any ‘and now to pretend trans people don’t exist so that I can write a story wherein a cis man gets pregnant’ shit. Jaskier is a trans man. That’s all.
> 
> 3\. This fic was conceived about 12 shots of vodka in, written with the help of 29 additional shots and four $3 bottles of pinot noir, but (and I’ve been told this is critical) edited mostly sober.
> 
> 4\. The myth isn’t exactly… rife with historical facts, being as it is a myth, and I’m certainly not a scholar of medieval scotland, but I tried my best. If anyone reading this IS a scholar of medieval scotland, please first accept my apologies, and second, I would be happy to take any additional facts into consideration. I know the myth well, but where it ends, my knowledge ends. And, as I said… I’m fantastically drunk. This is a “seeing double at 5 am” kind of fic.
> 
> 5\. if anyone has an interest to what (major) changes have been made to the original myth: none of the versions I’ve read have gone into much detail about Tam Lin and his lover fucking, which is a big mistake, if you ask me. And generally it’s acknowledged that Tam Lin is very much into bedding whoever the fuck will have him, since he’s trapped in a shitty castle and imprisoned by faeries. I know at least that the Witcher 3 is insistent on Geralt being, for lack of a better term, a massive slut. BUT. My much more fleshed-out knowledge of Netflix series Geralt tells me that he really doesn’t want to be a dad. So in this story, people were just trying to come up plausible men who could have knocked them up but who their fathers will not actually be able to murder in retribution. And of course, Jaskier hears about this and takes it at face value, because he’s not actually as well-read as he perceives himself to be.
> 
> Anyway. Geralt has been rather saving himself for someone very pretty and nice and Jaskier has not at all been doing that, but there’s nobody in his terrible village that he’d like to have a child with, so…
> 
> 6\. I had an idea to have Geralt turn into various witcher-compliant monsters, and then have Jaskier try and fight them off or something. But it seemed like far too much work, so I just stuck with the classic "newt, lion, naked man" trio that Tam Lin did.
> 
> 7\. "Thomas the Rhymer" is a character in medieval Scottish myth ! In this fic he's pretty young (not yet an oracle or whatever) and also very good friends with Jaskier. After the events of the fic, please imagine that Jaskier and Geralt go and tell him all about what happened. And perhaps its the same elven queen that later gives him the gift of prophecy ? that's up you !


End file.
